…The train has been travelling for a second day now. Passengers have already introduced themselves, enjoyed countless cups of tea, and tackled a dozen crossword puzzles. Now the usual conversations about life have begun. Theres something about train journeys that encourages people to share stories youd never hear anywhere else.
Im sitting on a side seat, while in the compartment next to me, three elderly ladies discuss pastry recipes and compare notes on how best to knit socks. The train crosses a bridge, revealing a marvellous view. The sky is clear, the sunlight bright, and a wide river glistens below, its surface rippling in the gentle breeze. On a high, velvet-green bank stands an old white stone church, its spire catching the sun.
The ladies fall silent. One of them makes the sign of the cross.
Let me tell you a story, her neighbour says thoughtfully. You may believe me or not, as you choose.
It happened a few years back, in spring. I live alone my children have moved away and my husband passed on years ago. Our village is small, but its spread along both banks of the river. To reach the shop or the post office, you must cross the bridge.
One morning, my brother rang. He was passing through on business, taking a detour just to see me. We hadnt met in five years; he lives far away. I was so thrilled! I thought, Better pop to the shop, pick up some flour and sugar, bake a pie for my dear guest. I threw on my old coat without buttoning it, slipped into my wellies, and hurried out.
When I reached the river, I paused to think. Walking to the bridge is a roundabout way. What if I nip across the ice instead? I wondered. Though the days had been growing warmer, nights were still frosty, and from the distance, I could see fishermen sitting not far from the bridge. If big men with rods and all their gear were safe out there, surely I would manage. Im small and quick after all!
Cautiously I made my way down to the riverbank. Stepping out, the ice didnt so much as squeak beneath me. All right, I thought, I can do this. The bend in the river here makes it quite narrow; it wont take long to cross.
And would you believe, I didnt even realise at first Id gone under! It felt like a blast of icy fire, all the breath punched from my chest in a single gasp and then, silence. I tried to reach the surface, but my coat dragged me down. Thank goodness I hadnt done it up! I shrugged it off in the water, which made swimming up much easier. Nothings more terrifying than clutching at the rim of the ice only for it to snap, groaning, sending you under again. I couldnt even scream; my voice failed me.
I spotted my neighbour standing on the bank, watching intently. I waved, desperate for her to call the fishermen for help. Instead, she backed away and disappeared! Well, thats it, I thought, So this is the end. Ill drown, and my brother will come and find me gone.
One last try the ice gave way again. Suddenly, a man appeared, running towards me. I swear, moments before, thered been nobody around. Where had he come from? How had he seen me?
He flung himself down, reaching out and shouting, Come on, you can make it! Come here!
I dont know where my strength came from. But then the ice beneath him began to crack, so he rushed to the bank and, in one heave, pulled up a young birch tree. He came back, sprawled on the ice, and pushed it towards me. My hands kept slipping off the branches the water had glazed them with ice.
Then he turned the tree and cried, Grab the trunk! Hold tight to the trunk!
I clung to the roots and, with a mighty pull, he hauled me clear as youd tug up a carrot. I lay gasping on the ice, tears freezing on my cheeks. The man leaned over.
Are you all right, love? he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Thank heavens for that, he said kindly. Now home with you, dont fret, youll come to no harm.
I wiped my face and stood. When I looked back, hed gone. Vanished! Theres nowhere to hide by the river, and the nearest bend is distant yet I saw the fishermen racing up the bank.
One of them helped me get home. I changed, made myself a hot brew. But I still needed to go to the shop.
This time, I took the bridge safely over. Outside the shop, who do I see but the very neighbour from the riverbank, crossing herself at the sight of me as if I were a ghost.
You didnt drown then?
Why didnt you call for help? I demanded.
I thought if I came close, Id fall in too, and Id never make it to the fishermen in time. If you drowned, well it was meant to be. But you didnt, and all came right in the end.
My brother stayed just one day. I never told him what had happened. After he left, I made inquiries around the village, trying to find out who that man was. He wasnt one of ours and he dressed oddly, almost as if in a cloak or cape. In a village this small, you know every relative and friend who visits. I felt sure Id met him before, but just couldnt place him. Nobody else had seen him; no stranger had called on anyone, so far as I could discover.
I travelled to the neighbouring parish church wanted to light a candle in gratitude. As I stepped inside, I was taken aback. From the old painting above the altar, the very man whod rescued me looked down St Nicholas, the Miracle Worker. I nearly keeled over from shock! The vicar and I spoke for a long while afterward.
And that, the woman finished, is how it happened. Its true, I never caught so much as a cold after that day not even a sneeze. Believe me or not as you will.For a long moment, no one spoke. Outside, the train clattered across the last of the bridge and sunlight poured through the window, dust motes swirling in the golden air. The other passengersknitting needles paused mid-stitch, teacups poisedlooked at the storyteller with wide eyes. Even I found myself holding my breath, caught between disbelief and the shiver of something close to awe.
Then, very softly, one of the ladies whispered, Perhaps were sometimes rescued in ways we dont expect, by souls we never truly meet.
The train whistle sounded, long and low, sending a ripple of goosebumps down my arms as the landscape rolled bya river flashing below, the spire of a church growing smaller in the distance. In the gentle hush, I wondered how many stories unfolded quietly on journeys like this, sacred moments nestled between strangers, stitched together over crosswords and cups of tea.
At the next station, the storyteller gathered her bag and stood, a gentle smile lingering on her lips.
Take care when you cross your own bridges, she said, voice warm with experience. You never know whos waiting to help you across.
With that, she stepped onto the platform, vanishing into the world as quietly as shed appeared. The train rattled on, the memory of her tale lingering in the sunlit compartmentthe kind of story, once heard, you find yourself carrying forever.
